


Awkward Dinner

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Witchblade (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-02
Updated: 2004-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-25 01:27:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1624295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian/Gabriel, with Gabriel/Sara and Ian/Sara alluded to; what happens in restaurants can hit a little too close to home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awkward Dinner

**Author's Note:**

> Written for avis

 

 

Centers around episode 8: Thanatopsis. Lotta spoilers.

Beta'd by Juliette Torres

* * *

I was sitting at home, reading some comic books. Whee. Fun. They're all I have left of a good friend. He's dead. Sly. Sylvester Marcus. He was a great guy. Great artist.

He'd slept with Irons. Kenneth Irons. Richest, most powerful man I've ever heard mentioned in regards to my fucking friends. This is a little surprising. Not that Sly was into guys, just that this guy was into Sly. Sly believed in binary sexuality, in the sense that it doesn't have to be 10 or 01, but 11, or 00, or 101. See, because 1 is like, male, and 0 is female and there are a number of combinations. I'm using numbers to deal with the fact that my slightly-bent friend is dead. I'm a geek. I know it. That's not the point.

The point is I love my dead, gay Sly. Sly wouldn't kill himself. I know he wouldn't. I **know** it. He's not that kind of guy. He wasn't. Past tense. I can do this. Sly slept with Irons. According to that disk, so did Pez. Sara says she didn't. I believe her. I think she thinks she was helping. Pez wouldn't steer me wrong. She's my friend. She's... we've moved past the Witchblade, but I still want to help her with that.

Sara told me to sit still and hurt. I was trying to do that, with the comic books. Existential bullshit, my fave. I can't lie back and take the pain. What the hell kind of advice is that anyway? "Stop struggling, it'll just hurt more." Fucking Pez. That's why I started the fight: to have the pain, the real pain. Nah, to get revenge for Sly. I don't know. I needed to feel something real, and breaking some asshole's nose seemed perfect. Especially that particular asshole.

I bet Irons is behind this, somehow. He's behind every other thing, why not this? Nottingham is the one who carries it out. The man scares me. Not because he's Irons' bodyguard. Because he's so fucking _into_ Sara. He's stalking her. He's really good-looking. And, okay, so Sly wasn't the only bent one around here. I'm not into pain, or stalkers. Really. I'm not. Just because I dealt with Sly's death by starting a fight doesn't meant I'm a masochist. And if I keep saying this crap, I'll begin to believe it.

I put the comic down. I couldn't read it. I couldn't stay in my apartment. I was hungry. I wanted to see people. I went to this restaurant/bar to watch people be normal.

I sat at a table near the bar. My waitress smiled at me. She was in customer service mode. I almost felt like explaining the joys of owning a business to her in the new economy. I took my time ordering; a club sandwich and a beer. I prepared to be carded.

She did it with a smile, at least. "Oh, you're Mr. Bowman. I'm sorry. Your friend's waiting for you."

"My friend..."

"Mr. Nottingham. He has a table."

It was in the shadows, not too far away from mine. "Oh."

"You want to go join him? I'll still be your server."

"Yeah. Sure." Maybe I am a masochist. Why not eat with Pez's stalker? "You'll bring my beer over, right?" She smiled. "Thanks." I slid into a chair across from him. He didn't look up at me. "Hey--"

"I'm sorry about your friend. He was a good artist." I didn't ask how he knew about Sly's death. He'd probably watched Sly and Irons.

I needed my beer, if only to kill the brain cells responsible for that image. "Thanks. How did you know I'd come here?"

"I came after you. I just asked the waitress to tell me when my friend Gabriel came in."

"How creepy. And I'm not your friend."

"Aren't you?"

"Uhm, no." Didn't I just refute that? Yeah, I thought so.

Nottingham didn't seem to want to talk or make eye contact. He was looking at me in that creepy under the forehead as his chin pointed to his chest sort of way. That didn't make me feel any better. Weird. He seemed sad. As opposed to homicidal, or "happy." I can't really picture him being happy.

I know that Nottingham would kill for Sara. Sara would cover for him. That's not true for her partner. He's an asshole. If Nottingham does kill me, I just hope he kills that prick Jake first. On the other hand, he told me if I kept talking to Sara about the Witchblade, he'd make my life difficult. Make me pray for difficult.

Sly's death has made me pray for difficult, all right. No. Sly wouldn't get killed for me. I'm nothing, less than nothing. Nottingham threatened me because Irons wants the Witchblade and/or Pez, and I'm a threat somehow. That's it. Nobody would kill for me; no one would die for me. Says something fucked-up about my life that I feel too bad about that.

The silence came back. So did the waitress with my beer. "Thanks," I said, sincerely.

"No problem. Your food should be ready in a few minutes." Her smile was strained. She walked away, shaking her head as she passed the bar. This woman-- had to have been about thirty-five-- was getting information from the bartender about some unidentified waiter. The waiter's folks were college people-- one a lawyer, the other a doctor. The bartender didn't say which was which. I liked that, for some reason. The bartender was way better-looking than the would-be dater.

"How pathetic," Nottingham said. I turned to look at him. He was glaring at the woman. "She's drinking to build up her courage to accost some poor man."

"So?" Like he was one to talk about pathetic behavior.

I took a gulp before saying: "Why are you here, Nottingham?"

"I warned you about talking to Sara." My heart beat really fast, stopped beating, and then jumped into my throat. It was a neat trick, really. He was going to kill me. He was going to turn me into some kind of dish for them to serve. I was going to die. He smiled. "'Wash away my troubles; wash away my pain with the rain of Shambala.'"

I took another gulp. "Okay, no. You are not singing to me."

Nottingham turned to look at me. Really look at me. Like a normal person, but with this light in his eyes that made me wish I had a gun or Pez or something in my back pocket. Not that Pez would fit in my back pocket. Not that my having Pez would keep him from killing me. That'd probably egg him on.

"Why not?" he asked. The singing. He meant the singing.

I blinked. "Words cannot express how very wrong that question is."

"Why's that?" Reasonable question, but it was almost as wrong.

"I... you... why are you _here_? Are you stalking me now, too?"

"Too," he echoed back at me.

"Pez," I said, even though he and I both knew. He loved her. It was painfully obvious, but then, I'm versed in the ways of obsession.

"Sara."

"I'm scared to call her that around you."

"Naming her gives me power?"

"Naming her makes you--" I was not going to say "get a happy." I just wasn't. I wasn't drunk enough for that, or for any part of the conversation. I drained my beer in one, long swallow.

Nottingham's eyes stayed on me. "I'm not stalking you," he said, softly.

"Yeah, I believe you." I turned back to the drunken crone show. She was working up her nerve through the healing power of alcohol.

I got my food. Tomato, pickle, cheese, and way too much meat: It was a beautiful sandwich. Nottingham got veal. "Why are you eating tortured baby calf?"

"Why are you eating turkey?" He shrugged and took a bite. I did the same. We ate in silence. Nottingham ordered two more beers when the waitress came by to check on us. Her name was June. She had a smiley face sticker on her nametag.

Nottingham was staring at the drunk. The waiter had come back. He was talking with June. June went to get our beers. The drunk called the guy over. He was, like, my age. Maybe a little older. He was kind of cute. Dark-haired, sporting a goatee and a ponytail like you-know-who but Nottingham pulled it off better. Now there's a disturbing thought.

The waiter asked Drunky McObsessive what he could do for her, and she parroted it back with a leer. I had to turn away. It hurt too much to watch. The chick left as soon as he walked off. She didn't even finish her drink. She just threw some bills on the bar, and started to gather herself up.

I started to move. "Don't," Nottingham said. Voice like steel, grip like some kind of painful thing on my arm. A vice, a wrench, a fucking metal claw.

"Let--" He released my arm before I could work up the nerve to say any more.

We sat there, quietly. The bartender had this sad kind of look. I think she was hoping it would go better. June brought over our beers. We nodded our thanks, eavesdropping to the waiter talk it over with the bartender.

"I told her you were gay, but she didn't believe me."

"Yeah, well, you tried."

June joined them: "I'm taking off. Can you cover my table?" she asked the waiter. He nodded. She gave him a one-armed hug. "Sorry, man."

"You are not. You're just glad it wasn't you for once."

"That too. I don't wanna be the only one fending off advances here."

"Aside from the customers."

"Yeah, yeah."

I finished off my beer. "That was..."

"Awkward," Nottingham supplied.

"Yeah. So. Are you going to kill me like you killed Sly?"

He almost smiled. "I'm enjoying the floor show right now."

"So, what, later?"

The waiter walked over to us. "Hi, I'm Marc."

"Hello, Marc," Nottingham said, so close and yet so far from acting like a normal person. "What happened to June?"

"Family emergency. You guys need anything else?"

I smiled. "No, we're good." Don't leave me here with the crazy psycho. Take your time. Try to get a good tip. Make small talk, damn you...

"I'm sorry about your discomfort," Nottingham said to Marc.

Marc shrugged as he picked up our-- my-- empty bottles. "Not your fault."

"No, but... my affections have often been unrequited so I can understand where that poor woman was speaking from. Desire outweighs common sense."

"Oh-kay," Marc said, starting to tremble a little bit. I don't blame him. Nottingham's creepy.

"Could we get two more beers?" Nottingham asked.

"Sure," Marc said, seemingly grateful for an excuse to get the hell away from us, and back to the welcoming bosom of the bartender.

"You haven't finished your first," I pointed out.

He smiled. "I'm savoring it."

I felt like a mouse being toyed with by some sadistic cat. "Uh-huh. Are you going to kill me?"

"Why do you think she did that?" Not much of an evasion, but it worked.

"The drunk chick? She's lonely, he's cute." I clapped my hands together. "Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Whatever man."

"Her loneliness doesn't mean he'd go along with it."

"That's... that's true, but--"

"Just because she wanted him didn't mean he'd feel the same. Didn't mean he'd even noticed her."

"Are we still talking about them?" I asked. Probably a stupid thing to do, but that's me.

"Of course. If I were referring to anyone else, I'd have to switch the genders."

"Right."

"Do you love her?" he said, softly.

"What?"

"The way I do? Would you kill for her?"

My hands met my head as I slid my elbows onto the table. "Shut up."

"Are you going to finish your sandwich?"

"If you stop talking, yes."

Marc came back with two more beers. "Sorry for the wait."

"Oh, it's not a problem," Nottingham said, all bubbly and bright and that was just fucking wrong. I rolled my eyes, and took another bite. "It's our first date."

I almost choked, managing to swallow the bite without too much harm to my throat. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because you're in love with Pez!" Dear self: please shut up. Love, Gabriel.

"I'll give you guys a few more minutes," Marc said. He was having one hell of a night.

"Thanks," I mumbled as I began to introduce my head to the tabletop. I waited for him to run away before saying, "Did you kill Sly?"

"Do you really want to know?" I nodded. "Yes."

"Fuck you." I got up to leave.

"Don't go."

"Why?"

"You haven't paid, yet."

I held back the "fuck you" trying to force its way past my lips. "Why did you ask if I was your friend?"

"Do you love her?" One good non sequitur deserves another, I guess. I couldn't answer him. I mean, it's Pez. And it's her stalker. And... no. Not having that conversation with anyone, especially not Mr. Black Dragon.

"Who?" I said, trying to play dumb. Wrong move. His glare was like a knife on my throat. "I... Just kill me, okay? Get this over with."

"No," he said, flatly.

"No?" My voice squeaked. A little.

Marc came back. "Are you ready for the check?"

"God, yes," I said, relieved. He couldn't kill me in front of witnesses. He couldn't.

"No," Nottingham said.

"I'm leaving," I told him.

"All right. I'll play the bill. I'll catch up with you at the apartment. You go home."

"Don't."

Nottingham sighed. "Not tonight?"

"No."

"Some other time then?"

Marc shuddered. I smiled at him, tightly. "Whatever." I pulled out two twenties. "That should more than cover my share."

"Of course," Nottingham said, softly.

I left. I went to Pez's apartment. I banged on the door until she opened it. She was mostly dressed. She'd shed the jacket. I really shouldn't have been noticing what Pez was wearing. "Gabriel? What's wrong?"

"Nottingham's following me."

"Are you sure?"

"He joined me for dinner." She looked at me blankly. "He told the waiter it was our first date." Pez laughed. She didn't let me into the apartment, though. "Uh, is this a bad time?"  
"No, come in." She looked over her shoulder at... nothing at all. "What happened?"

"I went out to eat, and he followed me, and he... he asked if I love you."

"I knew he wouldn't let that drop."

"What?"

"He told me he loved me, just before I booked him."

"That's great. Now he's gonna kill me, isn't he?"

"I don't know. What did you tell him?"

"About loving you?"

"Yeah."

"I told him to shut up." Pez shook her head. "What? It was an honest answer."

"Are you?"

I gave her my best blank look. "Am I what?"

She gave me a grudging look. "You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah. I think he was trying to get you through me."

"If he comes back--"

"I will run my happy ass back to you."

"Anything else?"

"Thank you for looking into Sly's death."

"Gabriel, about that..."

"Nottingham told me he did it. Think he was just trying to make me feel better?"

She shook her head. "No. He told me he liked your friend's comic." Her cell rang. "What?"

Her face contorted. "Yeah. He told me. You still haven't explained the 'flesh and blood' thing."

"I'm gonna go," I said. Pez nodded. She was wrapped up in her conversation with Nottingham.

 


End file.
